


you’re in my blood (like holy wine)

by mercy_mayhem



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Coming of Age, Grief, M/M, Multi, Protective!Sweet Pea, Riverdale/Greendale, Slow Burn, Violence, Witchcraft, everyone's queer, kinda enemies to lovers i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 13:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercy_mayhem/pseuds/mercy_mayhem
Summary: Alexander “Sweet Pea” Zhào doesn’t read the books they shared together, not any more. The witchcraft he learnt from his Father and their friends is kept in a secret vault at the back of his mind. Serpents become family and his younger years are buried until a threat could obliterate that family, leaving him stranded and heartbroken yet again. Is it worth risking the Serpent’s rejection?A story of history, unexpected alliances and acceptance.





	1. i'm frightened by the devil and i'm drawn to those ones that ain't

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Riverdale! I wanted to write porn and I ended up writing a whole ass character study incorporating my two obsessions, Riverdale & CAOS. This is Sweet Pea focused but Jughead is important in too I guess lolz. The ship is pretty light and it's more about Sweet Pea and his double life but I do love that rare pair and I'll probably write filth about them at some point. If you read and enjoy, comments and kudos are always nice <3 I'll post the second chapter either tomorrow or Monday (the second chapter is a little longer).
> 
> **
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Sweet Pea’s Dad - Jun Zhào - emigrated from his village in the mountains of Zhangjiajie (China). He is of Tuija descendant (Tuija are a community from this part of China)
> 
> Sweet Pea’s real name - I went for Alex. He doesn’t use this name usually 
> 
> Sabrina crossover/info: You don’t *have* to have seen it for it to make sense, but it helps
> 
> There are some flashback scenes to explain certain things but it will mostly be in present day from Sweet Pea’s POV. I’m also loosely basing it around the time of Riverdale S2 as Penny/Ghoulies are the main villains however I’m chopping and changing it a little
> 
> Languages: A little Latin for spells (translations provided at the end of the fic but you don’t *need* to know to get the idea)  
> One line of Spanish (“odio gringos” = I hate gringos)  
> Chinese Mandarin: Bàba = Chinese name for Dad, Nanwu = male witch/warlock/sorcerer

**

 

_ 1983, Zhangjiajie, Hunan, China _

 

There’s nothing quite as captivating as the pillar like trees, as tall as Gods, looming over the valleys and streams beneath them. It’s with a heavy heart and tears in his eyes that Jun leaves, feet light on the rocks of the streams, water splashing furiously past as he makes his escape. It’s now or never and Jun chooses now, before anyone can choose for him. 

America is calling but Hunan will never be silenced.  
  


**

_ 2009, Riverdale, America _

 

Alex giggled , comfortably lying on his bedroom floor, carpet filthy from his muddy morning yet it’s  _ this _ that’s captured his attention far more than worms or soil. 

His crayons can fly.

Wide-eyed and laughing, the eight year old watched as his colouring pencils floated above him in an uneven circle. He didn’t hear the twist of his bedroom door knob, only aware of his Father’s presence when Jun forced the crayons to fall on his son’s chest.

“Dad!” Alex frowned, sitting up with irritation, “I made them  _ fly. _ ”   
  


Jun swallowed nervously. Most parents dread The Talk but most parents don’t have this particular talk to worry about. It didn’t help that Leslie knew nothing about his past and therefore nothing about her son’s  _ abilities _ . Jun was a simple immigrant, nothing of note in his life bar a Chinese passport and some memories he left behind in Hunan. He’d kept that lie alive for decades and he’d die with it. 

Mortal life was better, simpler. 

“Ok, son,” he sighed, “let’s have a little chat, just us boys.”

He'd hoped to leave it behind. It was impossible in the mountains but in the American suburbs, it made sense, long days spent in the pharmacy and long evenings in the garden, watching Alex toddle and Leslie paint. Life was like a dream, in the way dreams really are; not perfect, but cosy. He hid the marks that appeared on his skin like veins, messages from his old life, Aunties calling him home but it was worth it. 

It was an easy secret at first. Alex liked the idea of keeping something hidden from Mom; a special, strange gift he could share with his Dad alone. Jun came to like it, too, in the way you might love a pet tarantula, both fascinated by it but always aware it could have terrible consequences. He couldn’t deny that seeing his son develop in the same way he did as a boy, in the same way Alex’s ancestors did, wasn’t a beautiful thing to see but as years rolled on and his inquisitive son became ever more curious, being the only one privy to his otherworldly growth was frustrating for them both.

That’s when they often crossed the roads into Greendale.

It was no coincidence Jan found himself on the edge of a magical town, just out of eye sight but close enough to hear the sound of the other paths mortals never get to see. Riverdale’s residents stayed clear of their neighbours but for Jun, Greendale was a lifeline. On many fishing trips and forest treks - according to his wife - he’d take Alex to visit friends and friends of friends, watching fondly as his boy learnt spells and tricks from his witchy peers.

“Remember, Mama can’t know,” he’d say sadly on their way home, “she isn’t like us. It could scare her.”

Alex was good at that. Even as a youngster he knew the less people knew about him, the better.

Perhaps, as wise as he was, Jun should have anticipated nothing as good as what he had - what they had - could last. Surely an elder or a previous life could have warned him of what was to come but maybe the simple happiness of a kind wife, a healthy child, a small, cosy home overshadowed one’s predictive senses.

He’d ran from the dark forces of below, waded through rural Chinese rivers to be splattered down by a 1940 Cadillac.

 

Alex can’t remember that day. If he allows himself he can hear his Mama’s voice, shaking, begin to speak, but whenever that happens he catches the memory and sends it back to the depths of his mind. It’s best not to remember him, as going back means coming forwards, and each stepping stone of misery has to be re-lived - the death of his Father and best friend, his Mama’s sickness, the loss of the house, his mentor in this strange and twisted life he finds himself in  _ gone _ \- sometimes it’s too much to bear.

Still, he can’t bring himself to get rid of everything. 

There are books -  _ story books _ \- in an old wooden chest, something they salvaged before the big downsize into a rougher part of the South Side. Mom didn’t care much for his Dad’s ‘funny little ways’, letting him get on with it, with his tales of spells and snakes and monsters. It was a harmless way for him to bond with his boy. The books, old and new, and herbs and resin, from myrrh to dragon’s blood, sit dusty and unloved in a crate under Alex’s bed.

He doesn’t think about them.

  
**

_ Present Day _

  
  


The North Side is trash. 

They say the southside, with it’s alcoholics and noisy, run down apartments is worth destroying but if there’s one thing Sweet Pea’s learnt since having to spend the majority of his time north side, it’s that the north side is just a painting. It looks pleasant, uncomplicated, and people like pleasant, uncomplicated things, but that’s just it. It  _ looks _ pleasant. Yet everyone - mother, father and child - spend their entire time looking for ways to denigrate their neighbour. 

The South Side might be noisy, filthy and broken, but it was held together by an unbreakable bond between its people, a motto of  _ people need people _ and we look after our own.

Toni’s right. The jackets aren’t worth a fight, even if Jones disagrees, preening about in his new leather skin and acting as if he invented the Serpents. Sweet Pea doesn’t need a jacket to know who he is. It’s faintly amusing to watch Jughead march with all the indignation and righteous of a misguided god, chin held high at all times. 

If he only he knew how fragile he, and all of them, truly are.

Sweet Pea tries not to think about it, but sometimes, the vault is loose, and there’s a very distinctive voice that agrees with him:  _ You’re not fragile. You could stop him with a click of your fingers _ .

That makes him laugh out loud, the idea of Jughead’s face, furious, yet his feet frozen to the ground.

“Want to… share?” Toni frowns, eyes wide, as if he’s slightly insane. That’s when he realises he’s at school, surrounded by people who can’t hear the inner workings of his brain, his ancestor’s voices mocking the mortals nearby.

He shrugs with confidence. Do anything with confidence and regardless of how unusual it may be, people will allow it.

Jughead continues with his rant about how terrible Riverdale High, with it’s clean floors and high pass rates, is. Never mind being enough to tempt a saint, it’s enough to tempt the Devil and the Devil doesn’t need much temptation, Sweet Pea eye-rolling and barely aware of his intentions before they happen, the roll of his eyes sending Jughead on a backwards swoop, falling over his own feet.

He’s not the only one laughing at that, the girls giggling and the hero of every hour, Mr. Archie Andrews, leaning down to help his confused, red-faced best friend.

“What the hell…,” Jughead trails off, but Sweet Pea doesn’t much care for his white boy nonsense today, turning on his heel for his useless French lesson before Jughead can inspire him to cause any more havoc.

It’s not that he doesn’t miss the jacket. They all know how important, how sacred that jacket is, an act and display of defiance in a world that would shatter and scatter them if they could. It’s heavy, the leather material thick and unforgiving, yet it’s the only item of clothing he cares for. That’s why Jughead’s wrong, too, annoyingly wrong, about being profiled. Profiling someone is assuming someone’s behaviour based on traits without it being necessarily accurate, but Serpents? They  _ are _ violent. They’re furious. It’s not  _ profiling _ when it’s your every intention to warn people that you’ll slit their throats if they cross you.

French is, mercifully, the last lesson of the day and after that he’s free to find Fangs and head for home, also known as the Whyte Wyrm. The Serpents became family six months after the accident, as Leslie span out, confused and terrified by her son’s ability to smash entire tables, still clueless as to how easy it was for Alex to destroy things. It wasn’t his bodily strength, which of course she couldn’t have known, but his mental strength and that - that was something neither she nor anyone who tried to help him could understand. 

That’s how he first met FP Jones.  
  


**  
  


FP Jones was the same back then in many ways, gruff, hardened, eyes often narrowed but with a glint of fire beneath the exterior. He was nothing like the men Alex spent his time around; not like his slight, quiet Father or the wickedly fun Ambrose locked up in the Spellman’s dark home. FP Jones smelt like woodfire and liquor, it hitting Alex’s nostrils the day his Mom marched him into the Whyte Wyrm. He wasn’t afraid. 

He’s never been afraid of FP Jones. 

“Kid,” the leader addressed him after assuring his Mom he was safe in the hands of some old snake. Alex stood in the middle of a run down pub full of strangers, some interested in his presence and others not, yet the most remarkable and insistent feeling settled within him: he may belong here.

“What?” he had spat, close to sending a table flying and knocking out the man standing before him, beer in hand. He knew that would lead to some serious questions which had unexplainable, difficult answers and with difficulty he fought down his demons, desperate to be heard, to destroy. 

His heart might have been broken but his father was still present, somehow.

_ “Mortals can’t comprehend us, Alex. You mustn't allow them to ever know who you are.” _

“I know what happened to your old man,” FP said, straight up, and Alex had tightened his fists, trying desperately to control what could easily out him as different.

“We can help you,” he said reassuringly, confident of that fact, “you can join me and my boys. You know who we are, don’t you?”

You can’t live on the South Side and not know who the unruly Serpents are but Alex had never seen them as an option. Many of the kids at school spoke a big tale about joining the Serpents at 16, the local heroes on motorbikes, but what would he need a gang for? He could hex them all in the blink of an eye. Mortals are dust, disposable, no match for the ancient powers locked inside of him.

Back then, it felt like all the power he had wasn’t a blessing, but a curse. It was heavy and confusing without his Father’s eyes and explanations and Alex was a barely-fifteen year old ball of fire who was terrified of what that meant. His grief was all-consuming, seeping out of every pore, poisoning all the potential he had.

He would never admit it now, but as he stood in front of FP, he felt the tears well in his eyes as he looked up at the new, less impressive father figure he’d have to settle for.

“I know who you are,” he muttered.

“There are rules. There’s some challenges. But we can help you,” FP promised, standing closer to clap a hand on his shoulder. He smelt of alcohol and it made Alex’s nose scrunch in disgust. 

“A little appreciation would go a long way,” FP warned, clearly not used to a South Side teenage boy not hero worshipping him. 

It was this or the abyss.

“I’ll join.”  
  


**  
  


It took weeks to complete the trials, Alex forcing himself not to use magic, to stand these tests as a mortal. He took the beatings, didn’t place spells on the snake, took the bite, drove wildly on motorcycles and felt the real fear whenever he thought he’d tip off the edge. It felt exhilarating to live as a human and he wondered how they do it when their skin is as dissolvable as paper, their hearts too small and soft to withstand much, but he felt like he belonged.

The emails of condolences, the texts from Greendale friends who he visited in the past as an eager kid started to drop off.

Once FP put the leather jacket on his back, slapping his shoulders and bringing him under arm as he smiled out at his disciples in front of them, Alex was too full of hope for his new family to continue to grieve the one he lost; his Mom was a ghost, a ghost who drank too much red wine, never leaving her chambers. 

“Tonight we welcome a new snake,” FP declared proudly to the band of men and occasional woman, the fire beneath them roaring, “just a boy, but a brave one,” he added, Alex feeling pride tickle inside of him as he stood wearing their leather, accepted. There were impressed murmurs, men raising beer to him.

“And!” FP shouted, not ready to push Alex back into the crowd, “a new name, for a new snake. Because he’s a sweet kid,” he grinned, pinching Alex’s cheek playfully, “Sweet Pea.”

“Sweet Pea!” the crowd chorused, and that was that.  
  


**  
  


“Sweets!”

Sweet Pea whips his head round at the shout, grinning at Fangs comes crashing into his chest.

“Bro,” Fangs pants, “your legs are too long. I have to sprint to catch you up with you.”

“Short ass,” Sweet Pea smiles, leading them out into the crisp winter air, “Whyte Wyrm?”

“Duh,” Fangs offers helpfully. Sweet Pea chucks evil glares at any North Sider who dares to be near them, to look at them. He doesn’t want to make friends at Riverdale High. He has all he needs. It’s going well, the privileged snotbags shrivelling under his eyes and making way for the two all-black serpents when Jones comes out of nowhere to spoil the mood.

“I was thinking - ”

“Don’t do that,” Sweet Pea interrupts, Fangs tensing beside them, torn between Sweet Pea’s outright and open mockery of the boss’s son and an acceptance of Jughead’s serpent heritage.

Jughead doesn’t seem to care much, and he certainly doesn’t get the hint.

“We should talk about how to further our cause,” Jones bleats on, “to combat the Principal’s incessant, disgusting  _ profiling _ of us.”

Sweet Pea bites his tongue, enraged that Jones is  _ still _ caught up on that. He wonders if he could make himself bleed doing it, taste the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth and once again he curses that Jughead is the blood of FP and therefore untouchable. 

“You don’t know what it’s like to be profiled, white boy,” he says instead, both the shorter boys having to walk a little faster to keep up with him.

“Ah, no - ” Jughead argues -  _ argues _ \- with him, “it is profiling! It’s - it’s - ”

“ _ Odio gringos _ ,” Fangs mutters, making Sweet Pea snort with laughter.

“We’re a family,” Jughead demands, standing in front of them, blocking their way, eyes blazing up at Sweet Pea’s, “you need to stand with me.”

Sweet Pea’s dangerously close to throwing Jones into the traffic with a swipe of his hand but he’s not sure how he’d explain that in the aftermath and he doesn’t want to kill Jones. He just wishes the insistent little pain in the ass would shut his mouth once in a while and is glad when Jones is finally silent albeit still tagging along. Sweet Pea could have done with some time alone with Fangs to fail at soccer (Fangs is somehow better than him) and throw rocks at cans; mindless, glorious fun, which make him feel seventeen and alive.

Fun isn’t quite a concept Jones has mastered.

They reach the Wyrm, a hive of activity as Serpents drink and roar with laughter in their own cliques, FP stood near the bar nursing a whisky, Sweet Pea spies. It’s no wonder Jughead is so tightly wound when, from what Sweet Pea can gather from gossip and intuition, he’s desperate for his Father to show up for him instead of being in the bottom of a bottle. A fury that he wasn’t expecting surges through him, that FP is here and his heart beats and he’s sat  _ there _ while his son grieves for him and he doesn’t even have to, because they’re both alive, and as he thinks it -  _ so it is _ \- FP plonks the glass down and Sweet Pea sends it tumbling over his fingers, smashing as it tips behind the bar.

“Dammit!” FP roars, the glass causing serpents to roar in amusement. 

Sweet Pea glances at Jones, catching the faintest look of relief on his face, and with that, he doesn’t regret it.  
  


**  
  


It’s not easy suppressing a part of himself, blending in when he already stands out enough as a supposed mortal. The powers of his ancestors could heal a lot around him. Every time he subtly rolls his eyes a certain way, his wrist, with the intention, and then  _ so it is _ , he can feel his Father and with it a shocking pain, a loss that expands throughout his body and holds him hostage in heartbreak. 

He can fight, though. He can use a knife the same way any snake can. He can run without superhuman speed, and he bleeds like they bleed. 

The Spellmans were useful, three years ago, but if that’s his only other option - exiled to Greendale - he’ll fight the urge, no matter how often he finds himself running his fingers over the wooden chest full of his father’s books and charms. Life since joining the gang has allowed him freedom and normality but the switch to Riverdale High has made his witchy senses spark. It’s just too tempting, sometimes, to make Archie Andrews spill his afternoon soda all over his lap, or hide Reggie Mantle’s clothes after basketball practice with a whispered intention. 

It’s the type of magic they’d play in the Spellman house, Sabrina and Ambrose teaching him their learnt tricks as he explained old tujia magick.

Jughead is his favourite unknowing victim. He can’t keep it up for long, it would make that irritatingly questioning brain of Jones’s start to investigate, but an occasional ‘cat got your tongue’ spell and watching FP’s boy stop, confused, mid sentence, unable to speak, is downright hilarious. He wishes he could share the joke with someone, knowing if Fangs was privy to his otherworldly self they’d play the  _ best _ pranks like watching Toni scream in horror at the illusion of her hair falling out or even - if they dared - making FP temporarily blind. He plays the scenarios out as he daydreams in class, careful not to wish it into reality. 

“Excuse me, Mr.  Zhào!”, the crow-faced Chemistry hag shrills, “care to share the joke?”

He shrugs, arrogant and angry, knowing all she’ll do is sigh and continue to bore them all into a slow almost nap.

It’s an ordinary day until it’s not, until Toni and Jones are hyped up and wide eyed, waiting for him so they can trek back to the South Side together. Jones is clearly wired about something and when Sweet Pea is playing tricks on him he can zone him out, ensuring he’s striding along next to Toni rather than stuck with Jones harping on his ear, leaving that unpleasant job down to an awkward looking Fangs.

“ - stop her, just, she can’t do this, she can’t,” he catches from Jones’s endless word vomit, but it peaks his interest.

“Stop who?”

“Penny,” Toni says in a quiet voice, “she’s saying she can throw FP back in jail. Unless Jughead does a job for her.”

“What job?” 

“It’s dodgy,” Jughead says, walking with intent, “I know it is. It’s in Greendale.”

“Ooh,” Toni giggles, waving her fingers in what Sweet Pea guesses is supposed to symbolise supernatural goings on. 

Jughead scoffs. He doesn’t believe and Sweet Pea knows that’s good.

“I’m sick of her,” Jones stresses, “she thinks she can order me - us - about like we’re her lackies. We’re Serpents. We need to show her she can’t mess with us.”

“Isn’t she rolling with Ghoulies these days?” Fangs frowns, “that could get real messy. Ghoulies do not fuck around.”

“I don’t care,” Jughead continues, “let them come after us if they dare. We need a plan. I can’t be under her charm or whatever it is that people say about her. And my Dad - he can’t go back to jail.”

They all ponder that thought, their leader gone, the gang vulnerable and exposed.

“We can’t match Ghoulies,” Sweet Pea snaps, “they outnumber us and they’re goddamn crazy. Don’t be arrogant, Jones.”

Jughead is full of frustration, chewing the inside of his mouth as his mind no doubt races. They’re right, however, which the young serpents realise as they walk into the bar they call a home. Older snakes are quiet, sipping drinks gently, the aura hitting Sweet Pea hard as he absorbs the anxiety around him. FP looks lost, more so than ever. He waves for the door to be shut before walking up to the steps, ready to address them all with a heavy heart.

“I won’t have my kid doing Peabody’s dirty work,” is the first thing their king says, earnest and proud. No one speaks. Sweet Pea picks up that underneath an unwavering respect there’s irritation at the shelter Jughead enjoys. He’s surprised by a foreign sense of protectiveness towards the prince, which he immediately shakes off him.

“If I go down, I go down,” FP insists, proud and dumb as always, and there’s restless amongst the bodies.

“FP - ”

“Jughead isn’t running any of Penny’s crap,” FP yells, shutting it down, “we have three days to answer her otherwise those ghoulies bastards will tear this place, our homes, apart. Three days and I’ll go inside. Unless any of you have any better fuckin’ ideas, I don’t want to hear an argument.”

He stares out at the crowd with false authority. Sweet Pea can feel the fear rolling off him. Maybe he’s the only one who can smell it. The rest of them just gawp at their leader in confusion and horror, watching him slink off to his own corner, before quiet chatter picks up again. 

“He can’t go down for it,” Jughead pleads, as if saying it out loud will convince Penny, “I have to do that drop off. Whatever it is.”

“No, Jug,” Toni shakes her head, frowning prettily, “we have to go with what FP rules.”

Jughead looks alarmingly close to tears.

“No one do anything stupid,” Sweet Pea demands, “let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

He isn’t sure why he’s pandering to Jughead’s need for hope because there isn’t any, yet it feels worthwhile when Jughead blinks at him, convinced that means Sweet Pea’s open to defying FP. They trickle off, Toni to her Grandpa, Fangs to his brother’s and Sweet Pea has every intention of going home, locking himself in and shutting off from the world but as he stomps home the uncertainty of the Serpent’s future is the only thing on his mind. He can feel the energy in his bones, nervous and fraught, connecting him to the ties he made in Greendale, as if both towns are on a tilt and with one slight shake they could tumble off axis.

The key is stiff in the door, a hard push with the shoulder eventually forcing it open. He doesn’t speak, listening for the TV, and sure enough his Mom is softly snoring on the sofa, empty wine bottles at her feet. With a wave of his hand the TV turns off and he fumbles around for a blanket, covering her with it.

“Night, Mom,” he sighs, restless as he walks around the relatively small apartment. If he sits, something forces him up, perhaps the unanswered questions of the evening or this feeling of action that he isn’t sure how to put into place. 

There is  _ something _ he could do.

It’s not a place he’d choose to be, walking through the forests to the neighbouring town, tall trees closing in on him and the unsettling shadows following his every step. The woods out here are well known for their spooky element, that bridge between Riverdale and Greendale, animals not ever just animals. Magic is welcome in these woods, it lives here: Sweet Pea remembers it from years ago, afternoons spent with witches and warlocks, each of them wanting to one up the other. It’s easy to find an open space, Sweet Pea crouching to gather a handful of twigs, leaves and fumbling for a lighter in his pocket. It’s not lighting a flame that is hard, watching as it begins to take to the wood beneath him, and he chants from memory, to keep it alive.

_ Let it burn and burn free, a gentle fire, so I can see _ .

He stands back on wobbly feet as the fire grows abnormally, twisting into a warm, ferocious crackle at his feet, the heat simmering in the air before expanding, images created in the flames like an old movie. He watches as they take shape, the sinister and cruel face of Penny Peabody, FP in handcuffs and alone, the flames blue and wild as they show Ghoulies on a rampage, burning trailer homes, Toni stumbling through the streets with a broken, bloody nose, Jughead Jones bloody and blue. 

His stomach rolls, sick, as he watches their fate.

“Sweet Pea…?”

The simple words almost throw him into the air, jumping round to see none other than Jones, eyes blown, watching the unexplainable happen in front of him, a projection of the future dancing in flames. Sweet Pea’s torn between a memory wipe or simply gaslighting Jughead into thinking he’s going crazy, but he’s too slow, too fixated on the way Jughead stares, entranced, by the predictive fire.

The eternal horror of being cast aside is finally coming to life. Maybe it always was and he was a fool for thinking he could bury it. He’s fighting for an answer when Jughead steps closer, if a little unsteady.

“How did you…,” he blinks, and in the world’s slowest second Sweet Pea can feel that he needn’t fear Jughead Jones spilling his heaviest secret. He’s awed, not disgusted, impressed rather than scared, eyes flickering between the fire and his fellow serpent and there’s a sudden, delicious feeling of relief that courses through him.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Jughead promises, as sincere as ever, “I swear.”

Sweet Pea debates punches him. The gaslighting option is still an option but it feels tired and old before it could even begin.

“I needed to know,” he finally hears himself say, “what would happen.”

“This is what happens?” Jughead asks, eyebrows raising, “so it’s all a lie, either way?”

Sweet Pea shrugs.

They both watch the flames, their home being destroying, the flicker back to a lonely, furious, desperate FP locked up and helpless.

“This can’t happen,” Jones whispers, as if his words have any weight, “it can’t.”

“We should go,” Sweet Pea murmurs, well aware that a light from the depths of the forest in Greendale could draw curious guests, ones who wouldn’t be keen on seeing a mortal boy being exposed to worlds he should be ignorant of nor a boy with magic he doesn’t quite understand exposing those worlds.

Jones lets him lead, following, Sweet Pea confident he’ll be looking over his shoulder as the fire withers to ash. The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable. He can  _ feel _ Jones’s desperation to ask and a self preservation instinct kicks in, almost sending Jones on his feet as he stops, the other boy stumbling into him.

“Gimme your hand,” he gestures, beckoning for it. Jones is wary, which seems sensible, but he reaches out regardless, with the same lack of care for himself that he always seem to exhibit and perhaps Sweet Pea should feel bad about that but there isn’t time. He takes the boy’s left hand, small in comparison to his, and reaches around for the knife that’s always lodged closely across his heart, in the inner pocket of his jacket. He reassures Jones with a look, or maybe it’s a warning, but either way, he cuts into the milky palm he holds a perfect circle. Jones winces audibly but braves the sting, waiting as Sweet Pea curves it, before subjecting himself to the same carving.

“Up,” he gestures, neck stretched as he ensures the carved circles match each other neatly, pressing into each other. 

_ This blood will curdle, without wait, if secrets are shared, you’ll meet your fate _ .

He doesn’t speak it. He doesn’t need to,  _ it is done _ . Jones examines his palm, a faint white circle marking the spell. Sweet Pea waits for the litany of accusations and questions but they don’t come, so he rewards him with an answer.

“Don’t tell anyone what you saw,” he warns, “my blood will poison you.”

“You’ve cursed me?” Jones ask, incredulous, but not annoyed.

“A hex. For protection,” Sweet Pea bitches.

“Ok,” Jughead nods after a quiet minutes, “but can I  _ ask _ now?”

Sweet Pea takes a deep breath. It’s going to be a long walk back to Riverdale.  
  


**  
  


Sleep is evasive and frustrating. There are different visions attempting to break through his dreams but the resistance he’s put up these past years is as hard as steel and he fights them off as he jerks awake, panting, angry. He doesn’t think Jughead will talk, the other serpent surprisingly docile as he questioned Sweet Pea on their journey home, but it’s still mildly frightening. 

Jughead radiates desperation - desperation to protect his father, his home - and Sweet Pea knows how dangerous that is.

It’s strange meeting someone after you’ve revealed something about yourself that allows them to view you differently, so the day is hazy, like he’s stoned and is navigating school with weed goggles. That would be preferable to the reality which follows him around, a boulder on his back, as the young serpents quietly go about their day without the usual jokes. Even Fangs is quiet and distant. Sweet Pea knows Jughead is eager to quiz him again, round his ankles like a puppy at any opportunity he gets, until he eventually snaps.

“What, Jones?”

“We’re a day down,” Jughead says, again with the doe eyes and hurt expression, “just wondering if you have a plan.”

“I’m not some all knowing wizard,” Sweet Pea says, under his breath but loud enough for him to hear, “back off a bit.”

“‘I’m worried,” Jughead mumbles. 

“ _ Me too,” _ Sweet Pea doesn’t say. His Father’s voice occasionally pops into his head but even he never mentioned the afterlife, what it is or how it works, so he has no idea if it’s real or just his own manifestation of what he thinks his  _ B à _ _ba_ would tell him. He only has one other option of supernatural support: the support Jun gathered for them, but he let them fade out, unwilling to play both worlds.

Jughead is trying. Sweet Pea appreciates that he’s trying not to explode and jump into the deep end as per usual. His impatience is obvious and Sweet Pea gets it, because this is his home and his family too. 

“What you were even doing in the woods?” Sweet Pea frowns, back against the lockers as they wait for Toni.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided to walk to Greendale? Through the woods?” 

“Yeah,” Jughead answers, defensive, “it clears my mind.”

“I’m not a witch,” he adds, “Penny would be dead, as would half the Ghoulies, if I was.”

Sweet Pea scoffs at the arrogance.

“You think I’m a coward?” he spits, familiar anger flooding his chest, “sending mortals to their deaths isn’t something you do on a whim, dumbass. That kind of mess comes back at you tenfold. It has to be planned. You think any of you weak mortal losers would exist if there were no consequences?”

Jughead’s mouth is open to reply but the locker room door flies open, a red faced Toni appearing.

“Hello, boys,” she grins, “lunch?”  
  


**  
  


Sweet Pea muses on the conversation because it does make him question himself. He has to reason with his anger that Jughead is oblivious to the world he’s looking at, he doesn’t understand it, so it’s useless to be mad at him. His Father always taught him that harm - real harm, not his playful pranks - has to come from a place of protection. It is the last resort. It can be wielded where appropriate but dark magic is like the bottom of the ocean: no one quite knows what lives there or just how powerful it is. It has to be respected. 

As the final bell rings and the snakes find each other, Sweet Pea nudges his new partner in crime.

“Meet me at the start of the woods at 8,” he tells him, “near the river. I have an idea.”

He could regret it, but Jughead was right, not that Sweet Pea had any intention of letting him know that. They have no time and no friends, at least, no friends the Serpents know of yet Sweet Pea has the potential to save them, if he allows himself to do so. He can see that Jughead is excited, too, full of beans and energy as if this is a quest which in some ways, it is, and it’s surely a good thing that one of them has hope. 

As they trudge through the woods, lit by moonlight, Sweet Pea remembers  _ B _ _ à _ _ ba _ telling him about his great escape through the woods back home. 

Maybe some things do come full circle.

“Here,” Sweet Pea beckons, kicking dead branches to find the nook they can crawl out of which leads them into the small graveyard. He allows Jughead to take a second as he eyes the enormous black house Sweet Pea’s intending to take them into, and for a moment Sweet Pea wishes he had the ability to read minds.

He spent so much time in this graveyard as a kid, a pre-teen, and even more hours inside, running up and down the lavish staircase, back through to the kitchen where tea was always brewing or a cake was coming to life in the oven. As they reach the front door, he’s hit with a sense of missing it - them - which he repressed and bottled, a grieving technique that helped at the time. 

He wraps his knuckles against the oak door and waits.

 


	2. part of you pours out of me, in these lines from time to time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander “Sweet Pea” Zhào doesn’t read the books they shared together, not any more. The witchcraft he learnt from his Father and their friends is kept in a secret vault at the back of his mind. Serpents become family and his younger years are buried until a threat could obliterate that family, leaving him stranded and heartbroken yet again. Is it worth risking the Serpent’s rejection?
> 
> A story of history, unexpected alliances and acceptance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaand part 2!

 

As it opens, creaking ever so slightly, he sees the perplexed, open mouthed face of Hilda Spellman, hands predictably covered in flour.

“Well, I - ” she gapes, floundering at Sweet Pea, “I can’t bloody believe it! Come here!” 

She grabs him into a hug and he has to lean down, her small arms warm and the scent of apple pie drifting off her. He can’t remember the last time he was hugged,  _ held _ , feeling terrible regret at ignoring Sabrina’s many (then few, then  _ none _ ) texts, begging him to come and visit.

“Hello, Hilda,” he smiles briefly, stepping aside to introduce Jughead.

“And who might this be?” Hilda asks, still smiling sweetly, “oh, do come in!”

Jughead is polite and curious as they enter the home and the door shuts, locking automatically. Hilda fusses, chattering, her wide, amazed eyes still entirely focused on Sweet Pea like he’s a ghost, an apparition which will disappear if she looks away. He tries not to show how awkward it feels to show up without an invite after years of silence which only increases as he spies Zelda, cigarette in hand, eyeing him with a stern frown.

“Ah, Alexander,” she greets, Sweet Pea feeling Jughead perk up next to him. He silently decides he’ll add that into Jughead’s  _ don’t-tell-a-soul-or-you’ll-die _ hex. 

“You got tall.”

The sisters haven’t changed, Zelda’s coldness matched by Hilda’s warmth and Sweet Pea feels like a young boy under the her eyes.

“I wish Sabrina was here,” Hilda coos, filling the kettle, “she would just  _ love _ to see you again, Alex.”

Sweet Pea is mustering the energy to explain his presence when a third Spellman, draped in an elaborate golden dressing gown, joins them, clapping his hands in joy on Sweet Pea’s shoulders.

“Well, well  _ well _ !” Ambrose exclaims, “he lives! What brings you here? And the quite lovely mortal?”

Zelda’s chair could start a spark with the force she pushes it at, ash dropping from her tightly held cigarette.

“A mortal! A mortal who  _ knows?! _ ”

“It’s - ok,” Sweet Pea begins, watching her face turn to rage, Hilda nervous by her side and Ambrose thriving off the drama.

“Get that boy out of here,” Zelda fumes, throwing her cigarette holder in horror. Jughead is silent but unmoving beside him and Sweet Pea feels an alien irritation in his stomach, something akin to protectiveness, when Jones hold his palm out, the small white circle evident.

“Sweet -  _ Alex _ \- did this. I promise, I won’t tell a soul,” he says with a misplaced bravery Sweet Pea almost admires. They were afraid of Zelda as children with her harsh voice and her dark eyes. If he didn’t know Sabrina or Ambrose he’d be convinced she’s a cruel old witch, the very stereotype, but Sabrina always assured him her love ran deep, it was just her patience that was thin.

“Besides, you’re not of The Church of Night, dear Alex,” Ambrose helpfully chips in, a mischievous glint in his eye, “you’re not bound to the same rules as us. No Satan ready to smite you.”

Zelda throws a cold look at her kin before forcing them out of her way with her hand.

“I won’t be privy to this,” she insists, Ambrose watching her ascend the staircase before diverting his attention back to the unwelcome guests. 

“Things haven’t changed here, as you can see,” he smiles, Hilda shrugging in apologies as she places tea in front of them, “but my,  _ you  _ have changed,” Ambrose grins approvingly, eyes roaming across Sweet Pea’s frame. Sweet Pea can see him for what he’s always been, what he was too young to see or understand before, and he can appreciate the smooth jawline of the ancient warlock, the charming accent and way he carries himself with the confidence of a cat.

“I’ll take care of these two,” he promises Hilda, “let’s go. You first, mortal.”

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Jughead reasons quietly but Ambrose is unapologetic.

“To the very top, darling,” he points, “ _ please _ , guests first.”

Sweet Pea doesn’t know if he gets Ambrose’s vibe because they share a magical undercurrent or if he’s just a lot more savvy than Jughead, who is wary of their host but obliging, beginning to walk up the impressive stairs. There’s no mistaking that the English witch is very  _ appreciative _ of Jughead’s slight frame and his feminine, pretty features, flirting outrageously, much to Jones’s discomfort and Sweet Pea’s amusement. Sweet Pea figures it’s no harm, after all, Jughead’s more than keen to speak up the second he’s inconvenienced or displeased, plus there’s something about Ambrose that is just wildly fascinating and with that, attractive. 

They reach what Sweet Pea vaguely remembers as Ambrose’s bedroom, the attic room of the mortuary. It’s steep, the windows large and looking out to the ground below, Ambrose’s running joke that he’s Cinderella kind of on point when you see the cage he’s confined to, locked in his homely tower. Sweet Pea vaguely remembers the postcards and ornaments the Dark Church warlock has scattered about, collected from his hundreds of years on earth, but to Jughead it’s a brand new vintage treasure chest, his eyes popping as he looks over as quills and parchment paper, fingers ready to touch before he remembers he hasn’t had an invitation to do so.

“How can I help you?” Ambrose queries, folding a long leg across his knee as he bounces back on a chair.

“I used an element to check something,” Sweet Pea says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “me and my crew are in danger.”

As an adult he feels inferior under Ambrose’s gaze, even though he’s sure that’s not what the enchanting warlock would want. Ambrose is as old as time, wise, with a sense of self and security that Sweet Pea doubts he’ll ever possess. The warlock knows it, only adding to Sweet Pea’s itchy feet, looking at him with kindness.

“You want to eliminate the threat?”

“If we did, it’s not just one person. I can’t do that.” 

He isn’t  _ asking _ but it sounds like he is because despite his Dad’s meticulous teachings, Sweet Pea was fifteen when he died, spending only seven years aware of the other world around him that is inexplicably different to the one mortals know.

“It depends, friend,” Ambrose winks, flamboyant, before patting the bed beside him, Jughead being the one who sits on it tentatively. Sweet Pea remains standing. He doesn’t want to be _ that  _ close for inspection.

“On?”

“You’re not bound by The Church of Night,” Ambrose repeats, “but as with all magic, the energy you put out can certainly be returned.”

“My  _ B _ _ à _ _ ba _ said dark magic has to be warranted.”

“ _ Is  _ it warranted?”

“Yeah,” Jughead pipes up, catching their attention, “it is. It’s  _ my _ Dad. And it’s us, our homes. They’ll destroy them. Maybe kill some of us.”

“Hm,” Ambrose muses, “why are you so attached to this one’s Father, may I ask?”

“He’s our leader.”

“Oh, how delightful,” Ambrose grins, relaxing in his chair, “so you’re, eh, the son of a gang leader?”

Jughead squirms slightly, shrugging, but Ambrose isn’t to know of Jughead’s complicated history with his Father, how he always seem to be attempting to save the soul that FP couldn’t care less for.

“Is this leader worth saving?”

Sweet Pea steels himself at that, nodding slowly.

“We would have taken you in,” Ambrose quips, shrugging a little, “after…”

“I couldn’t leave my Mom,” Sweet Pea counteracts, uncomfortable as Jones watches their conversation, “look, do you have any ideas or what?”

Ambrose wants to laugh at his oncoming tantrum, somehow composed at all times, clicking his tongue.

“Well, there are a  _ plethora _ of spells and manifestations out there, Alexander,” he smiles brightly, “I am just a humble, housebound warlock who is more than happy to cause a little chaos.”

“You’re housebound?” Jughead asks, “why?”

Ambrose taps the side of his nose, making a soft pink on the tip of Jughead’s cheekbones bloom prettily. Sweet Pea frowns at that incoming thought. He’ll come back to it later.

“If we could…,” he thinks, looking around Ambrose’s room, “maybe just - scare the  _ shit _ out of them. Or put a group wide hex on them so they can’t fuck with any of the Serpents.”

“Doable,” Ambrose confirms, head lolling back, “you could use a King Cobra. Implant the neurotoxin which could be triggered should these miscreants harm a - what did you say - serpent?”

“How?”

“Astral projection,” the warlock thinks out loud, “catch the snake, catch the venom, multiply, infect your rivals.”

“Catch a King Cobra,” Jughead repeats, eyes narrowing, “you do realise…”

“Yes, mortal, we realise,” Ambrose scoffs, “I’ve been on this planet for over 500 years, darling, I have my ways.”

“500?” Jughead gawps, looking up at Sweet Pea, “are you…?”

“No, it’s not the same for me,” he huffs, and he’s glad of it, too. Witches and warlocks can live for thousands of years and the idea of being at the mercy of The Church and whatever High Priest is reigning sounds exhausting.

“I could astral project,” Ambrose offers, “but you cannot breathe a  _ word _ of it to the Aunties. Especially Z.”

“No chance of that,” Sweet Pea scoffs, because Zelda is as fierce as her flame-red hair and he wouldn’t put it past her to curse him for subjecting her nephew to such danger. Ambrose is offering, one warlock to another, a cultural exchange of witchcraft, and in this life Sweet Pea’s learnt to take whatever help he can get.

Jughead is on the side lines for once, listening in. It's different, seeing him take a back seat, but he takes to it well. Possibly his fellow serpent’s constant reminding that he isn't a godly authority on every topic is sinking in. He's still eager to watch, to  _ know _ , leather jacket a little too big around his shoulders as he sits on Ambrose's lavish bed. 

"Find me some candles, mortal," Ambrose suggests, kicking magazines out of the way before dropping to the floor, his tall frame taking up a considerable amount of carpet space. Sweet Pea joins Jug in searching for candles, lining them up around the horizontal body, not mistaking the way Ambrose looks over his calves and thighs appreciatively. Their eyes join for a split second. He's not used to such open flirting, especially not with men, but it's enjoyable to be viewed as a prospect - to be lusted after - particularly by someone with a wicked smile and talented hands.

"Ah, Alex," Ambrose sighs, getting comfortable, "it really is  _ good _ to see you."

Sweet Pea doesn't reply.

"Don't worry, mortal," Ambrose continues, Jughead taking notice of them, "you're still my current favorite."

Jughead frowns, either oblivious or ignorant. Sweet Pea wouldn't know. He's silent when they talk sex, when Toni’s a little tipsy off beer they've snuck out and her mouth loose and willing to discuss Cheryl's legs for days. Jughead sits and mopes in a corner, scowling if anyone dares ask him about Betty's tits, haughty as he insists, "I think we're better than that, aren't we?"

They're  _ not  _ better than that, though. 

Sweet Pea wants to know. He likes thinking about Cheryl's plump, tight ass; Betty's warm, small, round tits, he found himself listening carefully as Joaquin boasted about Kevin's soft lips, his strong grip. Jughead told Toni he takes a feminist stance on discussing women or otherwise but Sweet Pea would bet he's just _ shy _ , which is intriguing in itself.

Ambrose is also intrigued by this, head to the side as he examines Jones.

"I don't suppose you'd want to give this poor, brave warlock a good luck kiss?"

Sweet Pea presses his lips together. He's almost out of candles, placing the last one at Ambrose's feet, coiled as he waits for Jughead to respond. 

He feels a pang of guilt when he notices the serpent prince looking at  _ him _ , nervous.

He should tell Ambrose to lay off, maybe, but then maybe it would be good for Jughead to adjust attitudes rather than everyone having to adjust to his preferences simply because he's serpent royalty.

"I have a girlfriend," Jughead pouts instead.

"Why not add a boyfriend to the mix?"

"Ok, Ambrose," Sweet Pea finally rescues his fellow snake, "keep it in your pants, man. Just get the Cobra without being  _ killed _ ."

Ambrose rolls his eyes for dramatic effect, waiting patiently as they light the candles around him.

"You're very lucky I always liked you," Ambrose mutters, "if my freezing spell doesn’t work, run. Save yourselves."

Jughead looks mortified, as if it's suddenly dawned on him the unusual stranger is about to wrestle with the most deadly of snakes. Sweet Pea doesn't feel much better but he knows Ambrose, not just from the years of their acquaintance while he was growing up, but he knows  _ of _ Ambrose. Sabrina confided in him, grinning warmly, about her risk-taking, impossibly intelligent, rebellious English cousin who knew the most ancient of tricks, the most bizarre magic. 

Ambrose isn't stupid, nor is he a show off. He's astute, smart and quick. 

"Do we just sit here?" Jughead asks, crossed legged and nervous as he looks down on Ambrose's twitching body.

"We wait," Sweet Pea nods. He's seen the Spellmans astral project before and it isn't as exciting as Jughead thinks, just like watching someone sleep, albeit intensely, with shaky nightmares.

_ Better you than me, man _ , he thinks, but Ambrose will be fine - Ambrose is always fine - he was the most fun back when Sweet Pea was nine, twelve, fourteen - always conjuring creepy animals or making Sweet Pea and Sabrina hallucinate, much to his own amusement. He just prays it doesn't take long, can only imagine the scenes should Zelda spy on them, but thankfully it doesn't, Ambrose jolting back into his body clutching a mercifully frozen King Cobra which makes Jughead fall back in fear with a girlish yell.

"Ah, no need to worry, mortal," Ambrose promises, sweating from the exertion, "he won't be waking up anytime soon. Knife, anyone?"

Sweet Pea retrieves his, Ambrose grinning at him.

"Knew you'd be the sort to always have a knife on you," he praises, "we don't want to kill this creature - "

" - we don't?!" Jughead interrupts, horrified.

"No, no," Ambrose mutters, eyeing it carefully, looking for the right way to steal it's venom, "oh, fine, once I've done this I'll send it back. Can't have you having nightmares."

Sweet Pea thinks Jones might be sick, which would be incredible humiliation fodder, but it wouldn't be quite as funny if he can't mock him without Fangs or Toni joining in.

Ambrose makes a small insertion in it's open mouth, gesturing for a bowl which Sweet Pea provides, watching as the inky poison pours into it. 

“Expansion spell,” he demands, but Sweet Pea’s mind is dusty. He keeps a few recitals there for when he really needs them but it’s been years since he studied or memorised anything. Ambrose raises his eyebrows in pity before raising a palm over the newly squeezed venom, the sticky liquid popping, expanding outwards. 

“That’s so  _ cool _ ,” Jughead praises, leaning over so he can watch, Ambrose preening at the praise.

“Be very careful with it,” Ambrose warns, the two warlocks guiding it into a glass vial for transit, adding books and scribbling his number down should Sweet Pea need any more advice. He can’t decide whether he should trust his own instincts or look outside. It’s tomorrow’s problem, Ambrose ushering them out with cheery goodbyes and whispered good lucks until they’re out in the bitter cold, trudging back to the road. Jughead's faster than him, almost sprinting to Mustang's truck. The old man was too drunk to refuse their request to borrow his wheels, throwing his keys at them, both boys glad they don't have another cold, creepy walk to suffer.

"Jones, slow down," Sweet Pea calls, "what's the rush?"

Jughead doesn't answer, unlocking the driver's door roughly. Sweet Pea isn't fussed if he's pissy for whatever reason. He has the bottle in his hands, the potential answer to their fears. Jughead's within his rights to be creeped out; he's been dragged, albeit willingly, into something he doesn't understand, he  _ shouldn't  _ understand, being drained and emotional is to be expected.

It's when Jones doesn't start the car that Sweet Pea's brief patience dies.

"Let's fuckin'  _ go _ ," he insists, "unless you've changed your mind about Ambrose. Pretty sure he'd love it if you wanted a slumber party."

Jughead smiles. A rarity, considering how tortured he is by life, teenage angst in the shape of a boy. It's nice seeing his face soften. He looks young, free, like his troubles are just trivial, standard teenage angst.

"I like him," he confirms, drumming fingertips on the wheel.  _ That's good _ , the rational voice that lurks at the back of his head tells him. Everyone wants their new friends to like their old friends but Jughead isn't his  _ friend _ . Jughead's not easy to compartmentalise into friend, colleague, peer. Sweet Pea doesn't know what he is and he doesn't know why Jughead's simple, innocent confirmation of liking the eccentric warlock makes his heart thump, pumping frustration through his bloodstream so forcefully it bangs against his ribcage.

"Can we go?" Sweet Pea tries again, thankful as Jughead starts the engine, eyes glazed over in deep thought.

There's a full moon rising, luminous and grey. Mortals believe full moons cause chaos and werewolves. Mortals are ignorant. A full moon is a time of opportunity. It’s the stars showing you that now’s the time to make your plans and your peace, to take that energy and charge it into something new. 

Sweet Pea grips the vial a little tighter.

  
**

Armed with Ambrose’s tips and tricks and the venom, practicing telekinesis in the privacy of his room, it could work. He could reduce the Ghoulies and Penny to a dormant thorn in the Serpent’s side, protecting the kin he’s come to respect and rely on. The bedroom floor is littered with notes, ideas, as he worked through the night to focus on protection rather than harm, ensuring the spell works to combat dark forces rather than spread them. Casting poisonous magic is addictive, the rush of power is unbeatable, but it always ends in blood. Mortals pray for powers but they don’t understand the weight of them and Sweet Pea would give it all away to feel  _ normal _ , lighter.

He can’t fight sleep forever, he realizes as he stomps to school, but he’s going to try.

“Damn, you look rough,” Toni appraises, giving him the once over with her eyes, “what’s going on? Girl troubles?”

“Huh,” Sweet Pea scoffs, glaring at North Siders who still eye him and the rest of the serpents as beneath them. He isn’t going to respond because if Toni wants to think he’s restless and agitated because of a girl, that’s easy, and he has no reason to be on edge because of it.

“She got you good,” she teases, cute when she smiles, but it’s dry and hanging in the air as Sweet Pea can’t tease back. She’ll just be another person to lose, another casualty in the war that is his entire life, a name he’ll maybe remember ten years on from now. It’s a relief to see Fangs, puppy-like and grinning, jogging towards them. He can rely on Fangs to take the spotlight, his enthusiastic optimism infectious and sure enough Toni’s questioning mind is deflected by the other serpent’s appearance.

He’s half listening to their morning jokes and half searching for Jones. He towers above the majority of the kids here so he can keep a lookout for that scruffy grey beanie, hands shoved in his jeans as they meander on through.

“ - girl troubles,” he catches on, Toni’s eyes wide, Fangs wolf whistling.

“Who’s the chick?” he questions, “you didn’t  _ tell _ me.”   


Sweet Pea tuts, shrugs. The less interested he can appear to be, the better. They turn into the common room where their bizarre gang sits, Archie buried in Veronica’s neck and Jughead smiling as he balances an arm across Betty, listening intently to her chattering.

“Sweet Pea’s banging some girl and she’s blowing him off, now he’s sad,” Fangs announces, throwing his bag down. Sweet Pea briefly considers a rewind spell but it’s complicated and tiring and often doesn’t work, so he doesn’t bother, annoyed that he’s caught between wanting magic to solve his problems and wanting rid of it, a 24 hour cycle of hypocrisy.

“Can’t blame her,” the insufferable Veronica smirks. Rumors are challenging; if you don’t speak, people assume, but if you deny, they assume you’re lying. Instead he chooses not to show he’s bothered as most people get bored of teasing if it isn’t reciprocated, shoving Fangs further down the sofa so he can sprawl across it.

He spies Jughead looking at him curiously. He wonders if Jones believes it. Betty’s still talking but Jughead isn’t really listening. Sweet Pea closes his eyes and hangs his head from the back of the sofa, tuning them out. He just wants to speak to Jughead and make some kind of plan to ensure they’re there tonight when FP meets Penny, but it has to be _ right. _ He can’t whip up storms of frenzy and half-poison a bunch of goths in Pop’s parking lot, yet as persuasive as Jughead appears to be to other people, he doubts in the serpent prince’s ability to convince his Dad to hold the handover in the creepy dark forests that marry Riverdale and Greendale.

He can’t bear the thought of the look in the eyes of the people he’d pick up a sword for as their entire perception of him changes. It’s torturous, spending the hours thinking about it, on top of the rollercoaster one minute thinking  _ fuck them, no one would believe them if they told, it’s not like I asked for this _ to the fearful dive below where he’s lost in  _ where would I go, who would I be? _ in the dark, hidden parts of his mind. Collaborating with Jones, of all people, too. It mightn’t have felt so heavy if it were Fangs who stumbled across him that night, or Toni, but it would have to be a boy he all but despised until settling on a grudging civility with until recently. 

Jughead with his moral high ground and his big mouth, typing and sharing secrets as if it’s his right to do so.

Yet, here they are, Sweet Pea slouched against the Jones trailer waiting for someone to answer his knock. Jughead is his ally, and the fleeting sparks in his mind that crackle and connect, fizzing warmly and strangely when he watches Jughead think, or the way his neck looks long and soft in the moonlight as he drives, is all nonsense, unimportant.

Jughead opens the door, minus jacket and hat. His eyes are busy, teeth chewing the inside of his mouth. They’ve spoken about it. It’s imperative that FP is privy to Sweet Pea’s  _ abilities _ so that they can be there when he supposedly hands himself over for Penny’s egotistical satisfaction, throwing the great serpent onto the rubbish pile of the judicial system. Sweet Pea’s mildly stoned but not noticeably so, just shared a few tokes with Fangs after school as they kicked around the trailer park and it has the right mellowing effect as he stands, arms crossed, in a checkmate silent with his fellow snake.

Jughead’s about to speak when FP appears, smoothing out his jacket, face hardening as he sees Sweet Pea.

“Jug, I thought we were heading to Pops, just us,” he mutters, unapologetic about his standoffish attitude. Sweet Pea understands. FP isn’t heartless, if anything, he has too  _ much  _ heart, always jumping in head first to protect honour, in the name of love. 

He’d give anything to spend an evening with his  _ B _ _ à _ _ ba _ , to see the curl of his lip and the knowing eyebrow raise, to see him work one last spell. He’d even go to Pops, a place he avoids on principle.

“We aren’t going to Pops,” Jughead shakes his head, FP visibly hurt for a slight second, “because you aren’t going anywhere.”

“Boy, I’ve  _ told _ you,” FP warns, finger in the air, “no messing about. We don’t have a chance. It won’t be forever and the serpents, they’ll be here for you.”

Jughead glances at him, and Sweet Pea realises he’s being rather gracious for once, perhaps learning from his old habits of speaking for others. 

He clears his throat.

“I, er - I can help,” he nods, glad of the weed keeping him slightly slower than usual, his heart not ready to burst, “I can stop Penny.”

FP almost smiles.

“Look, Pea, you’re a good kid, you’re a good fighter,” he shrugs, “but you can’t take on Penny’s smarts or the Ghoulies. They outnumber us. A real winner doesn’t win every fight, ok?”

“Listen, FP - ”

“ - no, you listen to me. I’m the leader. I make the rules. We lose this time. But we’ll win eventually.”

“Dad,” Jughead yells, annoyed, “will you just for once listen? Sweet Pea’s not - he’s…,”

Sweet Pea looks for the nearest item he could move, a plant he could perhaps shrivel, or bring back to life, a bottle of whisky he could make float, or smash with his eyes.

“I can take care of them, FP. I swear. I have - I’ll show you,” he stutters, now realizing perhaps a little smoke wasn’t the hottest take, mind a little slow and muddled and FP has had enough, making way to barge past them.

“ _ Dad _ ,” Jughead insists, tugging on him, all fury and frustration as FP ignores him, the older serpent shoving his son so that Jughead falls back on his heels slightly, before grabbing his jaw. 

“Stay out of my business,” FP growls, Jughead scratching at his grip, gasping in obvious pain as FP holds him tightly and Sweet Pea feels the darkness descend, blind righteous anger at the violence, how this stubborn old man always resorts to the worst possible option he can choose, manifesting with fire before FP drops Jughead like he’s been burnt, crying out in pain as his arm twists unnaturally. He drops to his knees and Sweet Pea can’t hear his agonized cries, barely registers Jughead hitting his chest and screaming at him to  _ stop _ because he could break every useless bone in FP Jones’s body if he wanted to, he could burn his eyes out -

“Sweet Pea, please!”

His vision sharpens, soul back in his body after it temporarily lifts and ascends, he’s never sure where, the power outside of him and using his physicality to weld itself and with that he drops FP from the grip he’s controlling, an unmistakable feeling of invincibility making him smirk as he looks at his leader, crunched over and whimpering. It feels like hours they stand and stare at him, Sweet Pea vindicated and Jughead torn between loyalties, but it’s not. FP twists, wary, confused as he glances up at them.

He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask, Sweet Pea can feel the shock and bewilderment dripping off him like summertime sweat, and it’s tinged with a little fear.

“You,” FP begins, eyes finding the shitty alarm clock on their kitchen side, their time running out, “you, what? Special, huh?”

It’s not an easy life being torn in two, living abridge two worlds, as exciting as mortals think it is in their stories and their films yet it’s undeniable as FP sits curled up on his kitchen floor, face still twitching from aftershocks of pain in his arm, that there’s another world in the Jones’s trailer. Riverdale folk know all too well the witchy tales of Greendale but it’s a long running joke, a scary story to stop your kids roaming too far, entirely different from being faced with the concept of another reality existing.

“It’s why my Mom brought me to you,” Sweet Pea says, “she doesn’t know, and I - after my Dad - I wasn’t in control.”

FP looks at Jughead with wounded eyes.

“You involved in this, Jug?”

Jughead shrugs, hair bouncy in a nearly comical way. He looks smaller without his jacket, still tall, but it’s easy to see his slender frame. Sweet Pea bites back another surge of anger at that, because FP is broad and strong and he still used that against his  _ son _ . 

“What you gonna do, then, huh? Turn the Ghoulies into frogs?”

Sweet Pea smiles at that. It’s not an unpleasant thought; Penny and her greasy new gang hopping about, slimy and silenced. 

“Nothing to do with Frogs, Boss,” Sweet Pea murmurs, “we’re using snakes.”  
  


**  
  


Once he’s on his feet, still scowling at his arm and by default, Sweet Pea, FP doesn’t ask much. He isn’t going to fight them tagging along to Ghoulie headquarters, both Jug and Sweet Pea sighing with relief when FP confirmed that’s where he’s due to meet Peabody herself and whatever unlucky lackies are lying around the Ghoulies creepy home. He isn’t convinced, face as miserable as sin as they walk in silence, but if he’s honest, neither is Sweet Pea. It’s a complicated ritual and a community wide hex. Regardless of the potency of the poison and Ambrose’s careful, educated teachings over the past few days it’s still Sweet Pea, a student of himself, fumbling through a curse with two extremely murderable mortals for back up.

Sweet Pea pulls his jacket tight around his waist, as if it can hide him. FP has lost some of the swagger, dragging his feet alongside the boys and when Sweet Pea risks a look in his direction his face is stony, eyes focused on the road. The Ghoulies keep to the backstreets of the South Side where buildings rise high and the stench of littered liquor bottles and dog shits makes you choke as it hits the back of your throat.

Sweet Pea’s not used to luxury but his Ma’s apartment is practically a North Side paradise in comparison to the bleak streets the Ghoulies roam around.

Jughead’s striding like he knows the area, eyes narrowed at anyone with pale skin and black eyeliner, their jackets making them the spotlight on a black stage. Prospective Ghoulies and the men and women who live in fear just look at them with slight amusement and awe. Sweet Pea can almost see the electricity in their eyes, the pride, that their gang - their streets - are about to claim the South Side’s darling snake, FP Jones himself. Of course the Ghoulies bragged about Penny’s ultimatum, how they’ve ensnared the King Cobra.

_ Not that King Cobra you need to worry about _ Sweet Pea thinks, allowing himself to feel a little high on the power he has thrumming through his veins as it begins to take hold.

He added droplets of the poison in the joint, muttering magic, before inhaling it and the weed, the cobra’s power fuelling his own. 

“Here,” FP grunts, eyes skeptical as they meet Sweet Pea’s. They trudge down a back alley and Sweet Pea can sense it before he sees it: chaos, organised chaos, a sprayed painted black door, a crow’s skeleton hovering above it.

“They really commit to the stereotype, don’t they?” Jughead scoffs, as if he isn’t wearing a snake on his back and standing next to a witch with deadly serpent poison pumping into his heart. FP ignores him, leaning in and hitting the door with his fist. Sweet Pea doesn’t expect the bile to rise in his throat, forcing it down, afraid that if he vomits he’ll lose what he needs to see this through but it knocks him off kilter, doubling up.

“Sweet Pea?” Jones asks, by his side like a fussing Mother, Sweet Pea batting him away.

“The spirits speaking to you, son?” FP spits sarcastically. Sweet Pea forces himself upright. Maybe this asshole doesn’t deserve it, both in a deadlock stare before the door is ripped open and a triumphant Penny appears, cigarette loose in her grip.

“Aw, FP, you brought the kids?” she chimes, smile taking over her face. She can smile all she wants. The deep bags under her eyes and the lines around her mouth betray her; she’s too old, too tired to survive this. There’s noise - a thumping, screaming metal album - but it doesn’t stop FP from forcing his way in, Penny leaning against the wall, winking at Jughead. Jones must feel confident of him, though, as he smirks back at her, following his Father’s footsteps into the basement where these creepy pretenders lurk. Sweet Pea won’t let her see he’s struggling, stomach protesting, fixing her with his best glare before joining the Jones boys downstairs. 

He has to lower his head as they move, the stairs almost closing in on them before the smell of weed and beer hits him. He counts quickly. Twelve Ghoulies and their half serpent leader.

“Now, FP,” Penny sighs, enjoying the drama as she circles him, her gang turning the music down to gloat over their capture, “you know the drill. You’re going to prison for a  _ very _ long time. Didn’t you say your goodbyes beforehand?”

“See how brave you are without Daddy to hide behind,” Malachai, official Ghoulie leader grins, stoned and soaked in beer. He’s lounging on a hideous chair, arms outstretched, but Jughead refuses to rise to the bait. He’s still got that confident, almost smile on his face, but he won’t look at Sweet Pea.

Sweet Pea fights the urge to grab his knees and fall to the ground. He briefly wonders if there’s a chance he conjured the snake back, and it’s stretching itself out inside of him.

“Jughead and Sweet Pea are here to report back to the Serpents,” FP confirms. Perhaps he actually believes that, because he is occasionally looking over at Sweet Pea, he can see the gleam of sweat on his forehead, the colour draining from his face. Maybe he thinks - he knows - it’s all over.

“Report this, baby snakes,” Penny grins, “FP Jones is finished.”

There’s murmur and laughter among them, like starving hyenas, lying in waiting in their damp, dark basement.

“Sweet Pea,” Jughead whispers, suddenly by his side. His eyes are wide and urgent. He’s expecting, impatient. Sweet Pea wishes Jughead could do this for them. Jones deserves it more than he does. He shouldn’t get to be the knight in shining armour, the one who defeats the Ghoulies for the last time, keeping the serpents safe and sound with FP at the relm. 

Jughead, who’s bright and tender and true, should get to do this.

“Pea?” Jughead repeats, nervous, their whispered conversation lost as Penny monologues to her dirty disciples. 

“Yeah,” he nods, bringing himself back together, “ok, ok.”

He sets forward to get her attention, and also to shield the mortals. He doesn’t know what they’ll see, and it’s bad enough they’ll see that this is true - that’s he’s strange, too strange for their world - but at least their eyes can’t settle on his.

“Sweet Heart, isn’t it? You have something to say? Hmm?” 

Ghoulies titter and giggle like school girls. He looks out at their kingdom, a run down back alley building with kids posing as ghosts, an exiled serpent and the world’s worst lawyer their Queen. His mind feels wiped clear, entitlement taking the place of anxiety. The sickness that was rendering him weak, faint becomes a weapon that makes his body feel as invincible as steel, standing upright and unbreakable. These people are dust. They’re prey, and easy prey at that. 

“Yeah,” he nods, manifesting. There’s a spider behind Penny, crawling slowly along the cracks of the badly built wall behind her. He focuses on it, letting his eyes fall shut, feeling the shift in the room until all he can sense is the violent paralysis, letting it manifest in his palm which he reaches out. It’s silent, or maybe it isn’t but that’s all he hears - nothing - as he blows the opal manifestation of light, a small, whirring ball of energy, in her direction, willing it to cover all present Ghoulies. 

Thing is, it’s slow. The power is intense, and heady, drugging those under it, but he watches with awe as Penny and her boys become trapped in the shiny, glue like energy he pushes onto them, making them unable to move. It settles like an aura, visible to the magic, knowing eye and he can see Penny, wired and desperate, trying to move.

“Stop it,” she hisses, sounding more like she’s begging with each syllable, “what - what are you, you - ”

He’s better than that. He’s above explanations, the cobra not just in his stomach but his  _ chest _ , the world’s most powerful venom wiping his thoughts, his fears, Sweet Pea is utterly  _ drunk _ on it, it’s unlike any magic he’s ever known, he could tear down cities, he could burn forests, stretching his arms ahead, palms upturned as he looks out on the slow chaos in front of him. He isn’t afraid as his vision darkens, blackness slithering over his pupils until his eyes are as black as the cobra’s, calm as he recites the chant to bind them by the cobra’s tongue.

“ _ Omnia, orem pulvere compleatur, defixio! Abi in malam crucem!” _

Latin never felt right unless caught up in a spell and the part of him that’s him - Sweet Pea, Alex - would love to see his French teacher’s face right now.

Tiny snakes appear on the hands of the trapped Ghoulies, twisting around their fingers and disappearing into their palms, as he chants, repeating and repeating until his breath gives out and all the power making him feel a hundred feet tall snaps away, making him choke and cough, almost unable to end the spell before he can compose himself.

“By the spirits of my ancestors and wrath of dark demons, may this land not yield freedom for no one and everyone who lives here be cursed,” he pants, shivering as the last of the poison rattles around him.

The paralysis spell evaporates, leaving a group of wide eyed, horrified boys - and one furious, pale woman - looking at him in horror.

It worked, though. It worked. A small black imprint on their palms. Sweet Pea can smell the Cobra’s devilish workings. They are bound by it.

“You,” he continues, still fighting for breath, “you are forbidden to cross Lake Street. Any attack on a serpent or a serpent’s home will kill you. Painfully,” he adds, hoping this will be over shortly and he can pass out and vomit.

“What the hell are you,” Penny bites, but it’s so empty. She looks close to throwing up herself, gripping on the table behind her, back rigid against it as if she takes a step forward she’ll burst into flames. Sweet Pea doesn’t need to answer that, stumbling slightly and pushing the Jones’s out of the way - he almost forgot they were stood behind him - to jog up the stairs, doubling over as he pukes over the entrance to the Ghoulies’ personal hellhole.

He knows Jughead’s near him as he can smell him. His senses, more powerful than a human’s heighten dramatically after heavy magic and Jughead’s - a wintery, almost cinnamon, apple scent - feels familiar, homely. He wipes his mouth with his jacket, stomach weak and pitiful, looking down at the filthy streets and the feet of FP. There’s a hand on his back, but he isn’t sure whose, and it’s anchoring, steadying him.

“Let’s get you back,” FP insists, careful as he throws Sweet Pea’s arm over his shoulders, helps him walk dizzily and limply, Jughead keeping watch on his other side. He doesn’t object to the care. It was never going to be easy, carrying through such powerful, dark magic, through his own body, his B à ba’s old words of _ “hex rest _ ” on his mind. He’s babbling, aware that he’s speaking, perhaps in tongues, maybe in Latin, or old Mandarin, the words odd to his ears, never mind the mortals, but they don’t reply. He’s maneuvered around a tattered old sofa, laughing as one of them forces water on him. Mortals are so  _ funny _ : like water can dilute poison. He partakes in their rituals mostly because he has little choice, lying like a fish out of water on the poor excuse of a pull out bed.

He opens his eyes occasionally to see a stoic, strangely fearful FP bearing down on him and a believing, inspired Jughead flapping about to his side. 

He dreams of jungles, vast and brilliant, black holes of wilderness across this earth.  
  


**  
  


It’s a groggy awakening and sadly a dark one. He rubs at his eyes, the figure in the corner becoming more pronounced as he adjusts to the twilight light.

“Ambrose?” he mutters, body screwed up and cracked from being forced on the pull out that they never bothered to pull  _ out _ . Jughead sleeps like a puppy, head slightly on the sofa, near his waist, body sprawled out on the floor, packets of chips littered around him.

“I wanted to congratulate you in person, friend,” the warlock grins, “Sabrina’s helping me cross. She says hi. She also says you’re an asshole for not speaking to her.”

Sweet Pea rolls his eyes. He’s feeling less high, less lost to the higher forces, a little more mortal. 

“Thank you,” he offers, because he is thankful. He’d stand no chance at pulling off such a spectacular show if not for Ambrose welcoming him back into the Spellman’s home with open arms. The serpents won’t ever know how close to annihilation they came. 

There’s an unspoken conversation, unsaid things hovering in the air. 

“You’re welcome back,” Ambrose nods, almost sombre in his evening gown, long and black and luxurious, “it’s hard. Now they know the truth.”

Sweet Pea understands. 

He glances at Jughead who looks terribly small in comparison to the world around him. Jughead is different, though - a little strange - looking at Sweet Pea as if the history that he carries inside him is something to celebrate. 

He can’t bear the thought of FP, archaic and mortal, frowning at him, constant in his suspicion.

“I know,” he whispers. Ambrose smiles, message delivered, before fading back home.  
  


**  
  


_ Jughead, Present Day _

 

He doesn’t often sleep for long, dreams interrupted by leads, waking him up and making him scribble down potential suspects, stories, so he’s surprised when his Dad wakes him, muttering about it being 10 o’clock.

“I’m late for school,” he realises, neck aching which he can put down to the dumb position he slept in. He blinks awake, FP making coffee grumpily in their tiny kitchenette.

“Did Sweet Pea go home?”

FP shrugs. He pours a ridiculous amount of sugar in his mug.

He has so much he wants to say but no articulate way to say it. He’s been typing the shenanigans of recent times down, about  _ Alex _ , because no one knows Pea’s real name, even their teachers. There’s an inexplicable feeling curling inside him. Sweet Pea should be here. They’re the only two in Riverdale who know about him and he went back to his empty, loveless apartment with his drunken Mom, hours after exacting revenge on Peabody? Jughead takes the coffee FP offers, but he doesn’t drink it.

FP rubs at his face, tired.

“You involved, Jug? In this magic stuff?”

Jughead wants to say yes, to spite him.

“No. You can’t just pick it up. You have to be born like that.”

FP stares off into the distance.

“Don’t tell anyone about him. We’ll lie.”

“Unless Penny shoots her mouth,” FP grumbles, sighing like the world is strangling him, “or one of her goons.”

“Right,” Jughead scoffs, “and ‘Sweet Pea implanted snake venom into us all to curse us’ isn’t going to sound crazy, even for her.”

“Huh,” FP concedes, sipping his sugary coffee. His Dad doesn’t seem too affected, perhaps writing this off as just another wild story in a long line of chaotic situations he finds himself in, but something is gnawing at Jughead. He checks his phone and sends Pea a text, a casual “ _ where’d you go? _ ”. 

He’s pretty sure Sweet Pea shouldn’t be alone. He might not know much, he might not be Sabrina, or Ambrose, but he saw the aftermath of pain, both physical and emotional. He’s pretty sure Pea needs someone who knows the truth. Jughead can’t heal him, can’t do tricks, or spells. He knows Pea thinks he’s weak, just a mortal, but mortals make up for lack of magic with emotion. Jughead’s taken on adults, faced down gang members: Pea is wrong. 

“I’m going out,” he offers FP, who’s barely listening, grabbing a jacket. Pea isn’t among the tents on the campsite, nor sulking at a pool table in the Wyrm. Jughead doesn’t look forward to having to check his apartment, his sympathy limited for drunken parents, but he finds the apartment unlocked and empty. He doesn’t know what Pea would consider valuable, if anything. He doesn’t want to intrude, it feeling disrespectful, but he carefully opens wardrobes, to find evidence of a getaway.  
  


**  
  


“Alexander, that pretty little boyfriend of yours is at our door for the third time.”

Sweet Pea emerges from the cocoon of blankets, frowning.

“Not my boyfriend,” he replies moodily, shifting sides. Ambrose shrugs, because what difference does it make to him, pulling the blanket off Alex with a swipe of his hand, sending it to the other side of the room.

“Can you  _ quit _ that,” Sweet Pea growls, trying to control his temper because he’s still a guest in their home and he has nowhere else to go, even if Ambrose constantly uses magic to get his own way.

“Fine,” he smiles, “but I think you owe him an explanation.”

He doesn’t want to see Jug. No matter what Jug thinks he can do or say, they’re not the same. Jughead, for all his blustering about being odd, will never understand what it’s like to be an outsider in the way the Spellmans do. It’s better the devil you know and the aching, the guilt of leaving his Mom, of hurting Fangs and Toni, not seeing Jughead gazing at him, awe struck -  _ ugh  _ \- will just have to be something he lives through.

“If you let him in, he won’t leave,” Sweet Pea warns, “he’s annoying.”

“I don’t mind if he doesn’t want to leave. I can keep him occupied,” Ambrose leers. Sweet Pea doesn’t like the brief yet powerful streak of possessiveness that surges through him at those words. He has enough to deal with. Reluctantly, he forces himself up, the Spellman house almost a mansion in size and it’s deathly quiet due to the women of the house being out. He won’t forget the way they welcomed him in, with a little persuasion from Ambrose, proving that family isn’t always the ones who were there first.

He pulls the heavy door, meeting Jughead’s furious face, dissolving in seconds as he steps in and puts his arms around Sweet Pea. It’s uncomfortable and not helping his protestations with Ambrose, who he just ignores by now, but he returns the affection, glad that Jones can’t see what he’s quite sure is a pink flush on his face.

“I  _ knew _ you’d be here,” Jughead mutters, pissed, extracting himself and refusing to meet Pea’s eyes, “I can’t believe you just  _ left _ .”

“So?,” he says quietly, “it’s better if I’m out.”

“Your Mom’s been at the Wyrm,” Jughead guilt trips, “Fangs is worried. Even Archie asked me about you.”

Sweet Pea scrunches his nose. Archie is the first mortal he’d finish off if he had the excuse to do so.

“You don’t understand. You never will. You think you know what it’s like to be on the outside but you don’t. I need to be around people who understand that."

Jughead looks impossibly sad for a second before he stands taller.

“You’re a coward, then,” he accuses, immediately making Sweet Pea prickle.

“Fuck you, Jones,” he goes to slam the door but the insistent idiot puts his hand in the way, daring Sweet Pea to break his bones, knowing he wouldn’t. It was different, punching Jughead for the initiation, a sanctioned act of violence, but crushing him in between a door without serpent permission means living with the guilt, which Sweet Pea is already drowning in.

“We’re your family,” Jughead raises his voice, “and we would never turn our backs on you. Did I? Did FP? We  _ know _ . It’s ok.”

“You’re very welcome to take him,” Ambrose appears, far too spritely, “he really brings the mood down, and I live in a mortuary.”

Jughead softens at the intrusion of the warlock. Sweet Pea glowers. 

“Please, Alex,” Jughead says, sincere. Sweet Pea is highly tempted to snatch his voice from him,  _ how dare he _ , the presumption too harsh. Jughead just ran into his life and won’t leave, and here he is, a reminder that leaving people behind, no matter how painless you try to make it, always has consequences and no mortal, no witch, can stop that.

The Spellmans know what it’s like to have something inside of you most people don’t understand, but the serpents and his lost, foolish Mom are still  _ his _ , he theirs. They gave him freedom to be mortal without having to make a choice, without having to renounce a part of himself. His tattoo isn’t just ink on his neck, but a talisman.

“Give me a minute,” he asks, not waiting for an answer, but as he turns to Ambrose the warlock looks at him as if he can read his mind. 

“Stay in touch,  _ Nanwu _ ,” Ambrose says affectionately, before winking at a bemused Jughead, “both of you are welcome  _ anytime _ .”

He’s leaving again without a goodbye to the Spellman women but this time it’s not forever. It didn’t send him tumbling into grief, reconnecting with them, in fact, it offered a little light, ancestral voices in his subconscious alive again. He was fourteen, dumb and wrong, to hide himself away. It’s a response he knows too well and he isn’t sure if he’s thankful to both of his worlds for changing that. 

Don't they say that growth feels like death at the beginning?

He doesn’t want the fuss or the glory but thankfully FP’s willing to take it, allowing his fellow snakes to congratulate him on escaping. Sweet Pea doesn’t think less of him. He knows he’s being protected. Fangs swoops on him as soon as they enter the Wyrm and after a series of playful punches, avoided questions, he acknowledges the voice in the back of his mind.

_ You made the right choice _ .

"Here," Jughead suggested, Sweet Pea following him out the door of the Wyrm and over to the campsite, trailers and tents pitched, serpents comfy by a small, roaring campfire. Jughead claims a spot near by, looking at the flames and Sweet Pea's reminded of their first encounter, before he knew anything. 

He soaks up the company, a tickling of pride that for now, he's stopped an avalanche of sorrow coming their way. Only as he looks up he notices the sky, flaming clouds of red, orange and the occasional pink, a glorious sunset, a goodbye from the sun you don't often see as it leaves for the other side of the world in a blaze of glory. It reminds him of  _ B _ _ à _ _ ba _ , of the tales he told of red sunsets. 

_ "Red at night is lucky, son. It will bring great things the next day." _

So, maybe grief isn't always grief, and what was lost wasn't lost entirely, but living inside of him, in a way he doesn't have to hate and suppress. 

He's startled by a gentle hand placed on his, thumb stroking circles into his knuckles but he refuses to show it, staying still, acutely aware of Jughead’s touch. He'd like to look at his face and see something lucky, beautiful, like the daunting fire of clouds above them, bringing great things, but for now trusting in the sky above is enough.   
  


**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> Omnia = all/entirely  
> Orem pulvere compleatur = let his/their mouth(s) be filled with dust  
> Defixio = curse tablet  
> Abi in malam crucem = go and be hanged


End file.
